


Interim

by INMH



Series: Ancestry [3]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bleeding Effect, Coma, Drama, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 23:49:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11428809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: Set during ‘An Unconventional Haunting’, but you don’t strictly need to read that to get what’s going on here. Aguilar observes Callum as he lies in a coma.





	Interim

This is unnerving.  
  
Aguilar’s eyes scan over the strange things the doctors have covered Callum with, the… _Plastic tubes_ and the… _Wires_ that connect him to machines, to… _Monitors_ that measure his heartbeat, his breathing.  
  
Those words- plastic, tubes, wires, monitors- they are new and unfamiliar. They don’t feel natural on his tongue, and yet he still somehow knows that he is pronouncing them correctly in his mind, and has some understanding of what they are and what they do and why Callum needs them, even if the one coming from his mouth looks painful.  
  
A week and a half ago, when he had first met Callum and spoken with him at length, this same thing had happened: He had known that Callum was wearing a _t-shirt_ and that the bag that held his other clothing was a _duffel bag_ , and that the strange device sitting on the table nearby was a _cell phone._ He also knows, with a similar intuitiveness, that this is the year 2016, and that Callum is his very, very distant descendent.  
  
Aguilar was and is tempted to label it Templar witchcraft.  
  
For now, however, his primary concern is Callum.  
  
From the moment they had met, Callum had had the appearance of a man on his deathbed: He was incredibly pale, with dark circles around his eyes, and his nose bled freely on occasion. Aguilar wonders if this is some cruel trick of God, that he should meet his descendent only to watch him wither and die within a month. Had God not had enough entertainment at Aguilar’s expense?  
  
Apparently not.  
  
Those first early days are hazy. Aguilar’s primary memories center around Callum, around his face, and then his body as they sparred, and Aguilar had felt so _strange_ because Callum looked frightened of him when it was all simply a sparring match, training, because something in Aguilar understood that Callum was not an Assassin and needed training to become one because there was some sort of threat imminent, looming, ready to strike and Callum needed to be prepared-  
  
Aguilar presses the heel of his hand to his temple.  
  
The pains he gets are not nearly what they are for Callum, who had been reduced to bed-rest for days even before he’d gone comatose, but are still noticeable and aggravating. Obviously the clergy of his day had been no closer to heaven than the average pig (and that is saying nothing of Rodrigo Borgia and his spawn), but is death- or the period _after_ death- meant to be painless? Was _life_ not the time for physical suffering? Aguilar sees no reason why he should feel pain when he has no actual physical body to feel it in.  
  
In any case, he must be careful. When he thinks of those murky, early days something strange happens to his mind. He starts to lose his sense of self, almost as though… Almost as though someone has taken control of his entire brain and is forcing it to think of things he would not normally think of, in a way he would not normally think of… Anything, really. It’s difficult to explain, and one of many reasons Aguilar hopes Callum will awaken soon; he wants to understand what’s happening to them both.  
  
That being said, he can’t deny that for the first time since he’s met his grandson, this is the first in which Callum has looked completely relaxed and peaceful. In his waking hours, Callum is a bundle of nerves and exhaustion. Little bits and pieces of the reasons- pain, stress, uncertainty, discomfort with his surroundings- filter into Aguilar’s mind from time to time, vague concepts that he is only somewhat aware of. But then, those are easy to deduce anyway since Callum has mostly been sick, pale-faced and bleeding and constantly dizzy, since they’d first had a proper introduction.  
  
A troubling thought comes back to mind; Aguilar had considered it before, but since Callum had fallen into the coma, the possibility had become even more troubling: Is he, Aguilar, somehow responsible for this? The bleeding always seems to get worse when he appears to Callum, especially when they actively interact with one another. Most of their conversations have been cut short because Callum became too dizzy or too busy coughing up his own blood to continue.  
  
_God,_ Aguilar thinks, his first prayer in centuries, _Please do not let me be the cause of my own descendant’s demise._  
  
A man enters the room- _Moussa_ , a colleague of Callum’s. He’s come every day since Callum fallen into his deep sleep to check on him. “Hey man,” He says wearily, pulling up a chair next to Callum’s bed. “You awake yet? Because this is getting old.”  
  
Aguilar looks at Moussa, but doesn’t try to talk. He’s already learned that nobody but Callum is capable of seeing or hearing him right now. Aguilar understands that Moussa and the other Assassins Callum escaped with have their own ancestors appearing to them much the same way that he appears to Callum.  
  
So they are ghosts, summoned by whatever madness the Templars have drummed up now, doomed to haunt their descendents until they, too, passed on.  
  
Callum looks like he might be the first to go.  
  
“You have to wake up soon, Cal,” Moussa mutters, rubbing his eyes tiredly, “Because Emir and Lin are off doing, you know, _whatever_ , and Nathan is making it his mission to be the biggest bitch on the planet. I mean, okay, I get it- it’s a big transition, going from a maximum-security facility to hiding in the Irish countryside, and maybe almost getting murdered by loads of Templars had something to do with it, but _geez._ ”  
  
It is relaxing, listening as Moussa rambles on. Everything about Callum thus far has painted him as a lonely man: Suspicious of anyone who came too close to him (physically or otherwise), quiet, a people-watcher and a listener, rather than one who joined in on conversations readily. But it would seem that, in spite of himself, Callum has made a friend.  
  
Aguilar sits on Callum’s other side, occasionally prodding at his grandson’s arm. “Callum,” He whispers. “Wake up.” But Callum doesn’t respond.  
  
There is something uniquely frustrating about being dead, about having passed beyond the veil of the immediately knowable world, and still being confined to the same uncertainties one had when one was alive. Aguilar has no more understanding of what’s going on in Callum’s head right now than he would have when he was alive and a fellow Assassin suffered from a similar ailment; and likewise, he has no ability to wake Callum from this slumber. He is as helpless- more so, really, given that he can’t even communicate with anyone but Callum- as he was when he was alive.  
  
What _good_ is it being dead, if you’re even more inhibited as you were alive?  
  
Then, just barely, Aguilar detects something.  
  
It’s a slight, subtle change- it’s not something in Callum’s posture, or his face, or his body, but something… _In_ him.  
  
He’s tense.  
  
He’s distressed.  
  
He’s _frightened._  
  
“Callum,” Aguilar tries again. Maybe if he pokes at Callum whilst this strange sense of disturbance is present, it will make a difference. “You need to wake up.”  
  
Maybe Aguilar is imagining it, but something like movement is happening in Callum’s body- is he stirring, or is Aguilar imagining it?  
  
“Callum,” He says, louder now, remembering that he needn’t be quiet for anyone else’s sake. “Callum, wake up.”  
  
Moussa sits straight up in his seat. “Cal?” He sees it too, so it must be real. He gets out of his chair and goes to the hallway. Aguilar hears him call for someone, and a woman, _una enfermera_ (puzzlingly, though his English is better than it was in his lifetime, sometimes the English translation for the word he wants isn’t available to him) follows Moussa into the room. A moment later, Emir, the Turkish Assassin, enters as well.  
  
“Is he waking up?”  
  
“I sure frickin’ hope so.”  
  
Callum is twitching slightly. Not small, erratic twitches that could be mistaken for involuntary, but kind one makes when they’re waking out of a deep sleep. And really, nothing gets much deeper than a coma.  
  
“You should take that out before he gets too coherent,” Moussa mutters to her, pointing to the long, thin piece of metal stuck under Callum’s skin, at the crook of his elbow. “Seriously. He’s got a whole Thing about needles. It’ll get ugly.”  
  
_Needles_. The sharp metal held under Callum’s skin with tape is a _needle_ ; that’s fitting, as they certainly _look_ like needles. He can see why Callum would have a ‘ _Thing_ ’ about them; he would not want metal shoved under his skin for any reason, even though he knows (somehow) that the needle is helping Callum in some way.  
  
“Let’s make sure this isn’t a false-positive first,” The nurse mutters, examining Callum and looking at the machines near the bed.  
  
It’s not. Over the next several minutes, Callum stirs more, rolls and squirms more, and then finally starts to open his eyes. Moussa elbows the woman. “Uh, now. You should take it out now. I’m not exaggerating at all: He will flip the fuck out.”  
  
“Okay, okay,” The- _nurse!_ Nurse! The woman is a nurse! That’s the word Aguilar’s looking for. She removes the needle from Callum’s arm, and presses the small square of gauze to the hole it leaves behind, taping it down.  
  
Something feels different now that Callum is almost awake: The dim sense of tension, distress, and frustration became stronger at first, but then start to taper away as Callum’s sense of awareness returns.  
  
The nurse turns to dispose of the needle, and Callum’s eyes finally manage to open wide enough to really see, and they focus in on Emir and Moussa first.  
  
Aguilar feels a shock of alarm at the exact moment Callum jumps about a foot off the bed.  
  
Naturally, everyone else jumps as well in surprise, but the nurse recovers the fastest: Callum is coughing around the tubes in his throat and nose, and she has to coax him into lying down again so she can carefully remove them. Once she’s got the one in his mouth out, Callum spends a few minutes retching painfully.  
  
“Holy shit,” Moussa whispers to Emir, “I didn’t think he’d do _that_. Imagine if she’d left the needle in.”  
  
Aguilar’s instinct is to step forward, to steady Callum with a hand and try to help him. But then that nagging little suspicion, the possibility that he may have caused the coma and the symptoms that had led up to it, makes him back up and away from the bed. By the time Callum’s calmed down enough to speak, Aguilar has folded himself into the corner, silent and still, waiting to see if Callum reacts badly to his presence. If he does, Aguilar will disappear for as long as he can.  
  
Because Callum is not simply his descendent- he’s Aguilar’s family. As of right now, he’s Aguilar’s _only_ family.  
  
He doesn’t want to hurt him.  
  
And if that means keeping his distance for the remainder of the time they have together, he can do that.  
  
-End


End file.
